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The Truest Pain

When Jean realizes she’s been lying to herself and she sees the truth, she goes to her knees. The ultimate defeat is coming face to face with your own deception and being destroyed. But what really is destroyed?

In this case Jean’s world view, her internal structure, her ego is destroyed but ironically it’s destroyed when it is revealed to a part of herself that is not her ego and it is revealed at it’s strongest point, it’s most ferocious, self serving, climatic point. The lesson is that until you face your ego in all of it’s horrible glory you cannot know the part of yourself that is your infinite, eternal and gracious human self.

The cost for Jean is high. It’s her life. The cost for us could be the same. I think that although the fear of death, humiliation, bodily harm can and does keep our graceful human self from stepping into the light, when we overcome that fear and take that step, we would experience the essence of freedom and all the deception would become clear.

And the cost would become clear and it would dissolve our ego because ego is us as god and grace is us as a tendril of god’s love. The beauty of the horror of the realization that we have behaved in gluttonous, murderous, tyranical ways is that nothing can change it, more poignantly it’s the acceptance that nothing can change what we’ve done and how we’ve behaved. The ego is dead and is no longer actively trying to create the deception that we are godly or good and room is now allowed to feel the true pain of the reality that we are good and that we have done horrible things. That is the true pain of being human in the world.

That we are good and we do horrible things.


I was troubled
and yet walked forth
all the time
in my mind.

It was supposed to be
a celebration
because everyone
was celebrating.

But really
what it was,
a competition
and I was not prepared.

Somehow I was supposed to be
because that’s how
competition works
you prepare.

And even my closest friends
wouldn’t walk with me
and what a surprise
that was.

And so I continued on,
troubled and afraid
and making up
the worst.

My opponent
was bigger, stronger, younger
and I no longer
had the mindset.

But it was the ghost
of my mindset
that brought me
and carried me
full of thought
and dread
and habit
back to the arena.

Why was I here.
Why do I keep walking
so full of trouble.

Why do I keep walking.

I do not think
the answer
is noble,


Trouble Time

I think it’s time to get into some trouble.

I’ve been writing since I was, what…12 or so…maybe 11.
I’m sometimes good at it
Mostly indulgent
With brief sparks of clarityand beauty (I think).

I started and written many blogs in my life
Hundreds of posts
and diarrhea (sorry about that)

I started a blog called “Lynch”
the day after Trump was elected
The first poem was called”Rooting for Trump”.

It was my outlet for processing the world.
I love social media for what it makes possible
I hate social media for what it makes possible
I work to stay on the “love” side

The more I face the violence
and apathy in myself
the more I find the necessity for art
because art transcends externalities
and has the potential to touch souls
and now, more than ever,
touching souls is what I think we need,
It’s what I need.

There is so much that has been unsaid
There is so much that has been left unsaid
As a male as a man as a boy
I am conditioned to heroic stoicism
but worse
I benefit from my silence
Not a real benefit
But the perception of safety
The perception of acceptance
My benefit is only a perception
and is not real
In fact, if I am a good person,which I realize I am,
the reality is my silence
has created the world
And I think the world needs to change
so I think trying a different approach might be good.

As the GREAT Peter Tosh sings
“I don’t want no peace, I want
equal rights and justice”.

Before anything and anyone
My son and all those I love
I want justice for myself
my internal self
and without speaking
with curiosity
convictionand experience
I can never know my internal self
and if I can not know my Internal self
I cannot have justice for myself
and if I cannot have justice for myself
I can never attempt to offer justice to the world.
There is so much to say
So much to express
so much pain
so much love
and much fear
and much hate

So with the intent to pierce hate
with Love
and to temper fear with Character
I will be releasing “LYNCH”
to the world
I hope you’re affected
In a way that touches
your soul.

The Boy is a Miracle

The boy is a miracle
which means you are a miracle
which means life is working
as it should
at least for you.

I love to see him attack the world
watching him learn about life
it’s months
it takes months, many
to see a difference
to see him go from
the kid who
-of course-
was sure
of his life
his decision
he simply hasn’t enough time in the light
to know any better
so he knows the best way
he knows how
and what a miracle to watch
the world open to him
as he opens himself
at the prompting of the world
sometimes prying
other times carressing
much of the difference
up to the father
what will I make it for him
what will I pry
what will I caress.

That boy is a miracle
and that means you are a miracle.

And what exactly do you do with a miracle
how do you handle a miracle
do you leave a miracle off to school
do you yell at a miracle
do you ignore a miracle
do you punish a miracle
oh eeeks I say
very eeeks
I wish this whole thing could go

Easilier (Ease-a-lee-er).

We laughed, together
I have given him the gift of me
and he has accepted it.

There are other gifts I will come
sacred, that he will reject
as is his human right
and I will be standing
flat footed with everything
I have to offer
and he will turn away
and I will be crushed

And all will be right.

But I have had a gift accepted
and that means our hearts beat
together for always
no matter the rejection
and that’s a lovely
a completely foundational gift.

And I know how I did it.
And it’s like my entire life
was meant for that moment.

The Father Breath

The silence of the mountains
is not silence at all.
It is the patient breath of life
It is the father breath
the foundation breath
to which we can always
discover or return.

If even you hear it once
you will feel it
and it will settle into you
as it’s meant to
and inhabit you.

The breath of the father
is in the mountains vast
steep and alone
he stays as all things
he does not wait
but he is glad you are
with him.

Like forgotten children
or forgotten dreams
once returned
you realize again
you have everything you need
and more than you
could want.

These mountains.
This father’s breath,
they do call out to all,
do not be frail,
come to me
and live in me
and remember yourself
with me.


Boys talk about fighting.
Men fight.
A real man will not hurt another person
without having been hurt himself
and when he does hurt another
he will recognize the hurt he’s caused himself
and his family
and the world
and he will carry the hurt with him


Boys talk about fighting
and nobility
and honor
as if they go together
rather than
being a tiny trickle
in a great ocean.

Honor is not angry
nobility is not strong
I’ve learned how to recognize
the boys,
as I’ve grown up myself
and left my boy, to walk with me

Always a reminder and playmate,
Seldom the leader.

Boys, you boys, you silly boys,
there is nothing wrong with boys
the only problem is the monster
who strangles the boy
with the noose of his father.

Boys will be boys.
There is no escape,
because they must.
The only question is
who will step in,
not to proclaim boyhood
and point,
but to demonstrate manhood,
so the boys can find
the only way,


You Are Different

Someone is planning for war.
Someone who thinks
it’s the best option.
Someone is planning to send
children to kill children.
Someone is planning on
a justification so complete
as to make those giving everything
feel as if they haven’t done enough
it’s like concrete, our ideals

We have been so completely
trained in our indolence
and prefer the comfort
that our concretized ideas
and we don’t ask ourselves
what our shelter
is actually providing.

The weak minded
gloat over what they
call victory,
while the cowardly

Don’t mistake,
we are all weak minded
and cowardly.

Like children.

Except for you.
You are different.

And I Am With Him

There is a boy,
and he is as real
as rain
as water falling
down mountains,
he is real.

I look at him
he looks at me
he looks to me
he looks for answers
at first I don’t think I have them
any of them
at first and forever
I forget that I am him
I forget that I am alive
I forget I am a human
on this earth
with this most gracious life
most vibrant life
most awake life
most joyful life

I forget,

and I am
and have,
tricked myself
into believing I have
no answer
into believing
I am at a loss in the world
for my way
I am tricked
and I trick myself
into believing that
I am not a king
a queen
a god
an earthworm
a boy
a man
a seagull
a chickadee
a song

There is a boy
he is real,
as real as rain
as water falling down mountains.

I remember
and I am with him
and there are no answers.

And I am with him.

Where Love Lives

I said NO to my son

With full meaning

And commitment

And love,

Not for him,

For me and for life,

And so for him.

I didn’t help him

And so I helped him the most.

He only understood the feeling

Of not being helped

He did not understand the lesson

And that doesn’t matter

Because I did

And that’s my job

His job is to be upset

And to not understand

My job is to say no because

I love myself

And want to teach him

How that exists.



And so I feel the pain


I feel the pain of my son

Feeling his pain

Feeling un helped

Feeling confused

I feel the pain of my own

Contradictions and


I feel the pain of his pain

And I do nothing

To relieve it

But also I do nothing

To make it greater

I am there with him

As me

As observer

And protector

And I am not deterred

From the lesson by his pain

And I am, while all of this

Is happening

In love.

Mother’s Rage

Why do you argue with your boys?
why do you insist they argue with you?

Let the little ones lie
let them be their imperfect selves,
it might be good for you to see
the reality,
they are you
and no amount of arguing
will change it.

Why do Mothers have so much trouble
with their boys
And blame it
on their boys
As if the boys are not paintings
they, themselves, have created.

Every stroke, every color, every texture
is from the artist
the painting belongs to the artist
and the artist raging
against their own brush strokes
is insanity

In our world today
it’s sanctioned insanity
allowed, encouraged to be written about
and complained about
and argued about.

A more honest approach would be
to rage in a dark room against yourself
but maybe there’s too much of that already
and so the mothers choose
to rage at their creations
because it feels better for them.

Mothers Rage At Their Creations!

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